


Promises

by Jo (jmathieson)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, Pre-Slash, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:36:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6111013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/pseuds/Jo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint keeps his wings hidden - most of the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises

It was so easy to forget that the 'Hawk' part of Clint Barton’s nickname wasn’t just a reference to his eyesight. In the five years they had been working together, Phil had only seen Clint’s wings three times, twice in the middle of a firefight when he couldn’t get the shot any other way except from mid-air, and once when the building he was perched on top of got blown out from under him. All three times he had swooped out of sight as quickly as possible and re-appeared looking, well, completely human.

So Phil wasn’t entirely sure that the feather he had just picked up off the back of Clint’s couch was… his. Clint had invited him over for beer and pizza and a movie, and Phil, finding himself inordinately pleased that Clint wanted to spend social time with him, had quickly agreed. He’d changed out of his suit into a pale blue denim shirt and chinos that he kept in his locker for undercover work, and followed Clint home to his apartment. Clint had installed him on the sofa with a beer, and said, “Back in a sec.”

Phil had been looking around with mild curiosity, noting the tangle of wires from at least three video game consoles on the floor under the tv, what had to be a reproduction antique longbow hanging on the wall, and a surprisingly large collection of books stuffed haphazardly into an old wooden bookcase with chipped paint. And on the back of the sofa, a single brown-and-white feather. Before he realized what he was doing, Phil had picked it up to look at it more closely. 

Which was of course when Clint came back into the room with a handful of take-out flyers. 

“Sorry, I…” Phil could feel his face coloring, because what was he going to do, put the feather back down on the sofa? 

“S’okay,” Clint said. His tone was serious, but sincere. “I wouldn’t have invited you over if I didn’t trust you. Plus I do know I’m pretty lousy at keeping the place clean.”

“It’s fine,” Phil said, at a loss. He knew he should respond somehow to the first half of Clint’s statement, but he had no idea how. He was about to re-direct the conversation to the food order when Clint flopped down beside him.

“If there’s anything you wanna know, I don’t mind you asking. I, uh, really appreciate how, uh, cool you’ve always been about it. I know it must kinda suck having a freak on your team.”

“You’re not a freak.” Phil frowned. Clint shrugged. “But since you offered,” Phil said, wanting to show Clint that his openness was deeply appreciated, “I guess I’ve always wondered if you can, ah, make them appear any time you want to or if it has to be an emergency?” 

Clint looked at him for a moment, then grinned and dropped the take-out menus on the coffee table. He got up and pulled his t-shirt off. In reply to Phil’s raised eyebrow he said, “Don’t wanna rip this shirt; I like it.” He dropped the shirt on the sofa and his face went… not blank, exactly, but… perfectly still. And suddenly they were there, unfurling from his shoulder blades as if they’d been there all along, big and sleek and, from this close vantage point, undeniably powerful. Phil was in awe.

Clint’s grin was a little less sure, now, as if he was waiting for Phil to crack a joke or ask a stupid question. 

“Beautiful,” Phil said, and he meant not only the wings, but the man who was spreading them. Clint stretched them back, and then in one swift motion beat them forward and down, causing a forceful gust of air that had Phil closing his eyes reflexively. When he opened them again, Clint’s wings were gone, and he was picking up his shirt and pulling it back on. 

Phil realized that he was still holding the single feather tightly between his thumb and fingers. And now that he’d seen Clint’s wings up close, he was loath to give it up. As if Clint could read his mind, he said, “Keep it, if you want,” with a self-deprecating shrug. Phil tucked the feather carefully into his shirt pocket.

~~~~~~

“Sir? Coulson? C’mon sir, open your eyes. Wake up Coulson.”

Phil swam slowly to consciousness, trying to remember where he was and what had happened. 

“Please wake up. C’mon, Phil, please. Don’t… don’t you dare die on me.”

Phil could hear the desperation in Clint’s voice and that made him force his eyes open. He still didn’t know where they were, or remember what had happened, but Clint was here, and from what Phil could see, wasn’t bleeding, so they were probably safe. For some value of safe.

“Cold,” Phil said, coughing the word as much as speaking it. So cold. He realized he was wet, too. 

“I know. The car went into the river when they shot the tires out. You, uh… well I got you out. And you’re awake now, so that’s good. I, uh, I need to get these wet clothes off you, okay? And then we’ll get you warmed up.” Clint was talking fast, sounding like he was on the verge of panic. Normally it would be Phil’s job to calm him down, reassure him, but Phil’s head was full of cotton wool, and all he wanted was to be warm. So he nodded, which sent a spike of pain through his temple so intense that he gasped.

“Phil? What’s wrong?” Clint was hovering over him, his hand poised near Phil’s face as if he wanted to touch, but was afraid too.

“Head hurts,” Phil managed to say only because Clint looked so damn scared, and Phil didn’t want that.

“Yeah, you smacked it on the door frame pretty good when the car went into the water. S’why I need you to stay awake for me. You might have a concussion.” 

“‘kay,” Phil managed, trying to speak without moving his jaw more than necessary. He was lying on some sort of cot, in a cabin or shack. Phil wondered mussily how Clint had found it.

“Okay.” Clint started to strip him with surprising efficiency, using one of his throwing knives to cut through fabric whenever that was the path of least resistance. With only a few gentle tugs and nudges, Clint got his wet suit jacket, pants, and shirt off. The part of Phil’s mind that was trying to work the problem remembered his first aid training. He realized that he wasn’t shivering which was a bad sign. 

“Cold,” he said again, trying to communicate the urgency to Clint, but it came out as more of a whine than a plea.

“I know, I know. There’s not much in the way of blankets, and there’s no heating. This is the first place I found for us to, uh, hide, and you were in bad shape so I didn't want to take the chance… Anyway, here.” Clint was taking quickly again as he stripped off his own wet clothes and lay down next to Phil, pulling a single, threadbare blanket over them both. Clint plastered himself next to Phil’s side, throwing one arm across his chest and tangling their legs together. 

“There. How’s that?” 

Phil felt his consciousness slipping whether from the hypothermia or the concussion or a combination of both. There was something he wanted to say, needed to say to Clint in case…

“Clint.” 

“Yeah, Phil?”

He didn’t… there was something. Something important. That he needed to tell Clint. But he couldn’t… He was so cold and so tired. So cold. “Cold.” That wasn’t it. 

“Shit. I know. Okay. This might suck for a minute, but it’s the only thing I got, so hang on.” And with that Clint grabbed him and rolled them both over. The sudden movement made Phil world go grey, and then black.

~~~~~~

“C’mon Phil, wake up for me, please. You’re warmer now, I know you are, I can feel it. So wake up, wouldja? Don’t die on me. Don’t leave me. Please.” Phil heard Clint’s voice. At first it sounded very far away, but as consciousness returned he realized it was close, and quiet. The last bit was whispered into his ear. He was lying on top of Clint, his face tucked into Clint’s neck. Clint’s arms were around him, holding him close, one hand cradling the back of his head. Phil wished he wasn’t half-dead so that he could enjoy it properly, because it felt damn good.

And wrapped around him, creating a cocoon of warm air that was slowly driving the chill out of his bones, were Clint’s wings. He could feel the softness of the feathers on his back, stretching all the way down past his bare ass to the back of his thighs. His feet were still freezing, but the rest of him was, as Clint had said, much warmer. 

“Please, Phil,” Clint whispered again, stroking his hair. And… Phil thought he must still be pretty out of it, because that felt like the soft brush of lips on his temple. “Please wake up. I don’t… I can’t loose you, Phil.” The sorrow in Clint’s voice was heartbreaking and so Phil struggled to pry his eyes open. 

“Not goin’ ‘nywhere,” he mumbled against Clint’s chest, because apparently the hypothermia hadn’t quite let go of his fine motor coordination yet. 

“Hey,” Clint said softly, continuing to stroke his hair. “Hey.” And Phil could hear the choke in his voice.

“M’okay,” Phil said, and, trying to reassure Clint, squeezed his shoulder. Or at least he meant to squeeze Clint’s shoulder, his fingers barely twitched. “Weak as a kitten, ‘parently, but okay.”

“Phil,” Clint said, and this time it was a sob. “Sorry,” he said, burying his face in Phil’s hair. Phil could feel the dampness of tears against his forehead. 

“It’s okay, Clint.” Phil tried to squeeze his shoulder again and managed a little better this time, but gave up and instead rubbed his thumb slowly against Clint’s collarbone. “I’m okay. You did good.”

“You were so cold. And your heart was beating so slow. I was terrified it was gonna stop.”

Phil shivered. It was an automatic response, one he couldn’t help, but Clint’s arms tightened around him and so did his wings. Rather than occasional light brushes, he now felt the downy softness blanketing his skin.

“Phil?”

“S’okay,” Phil said through chattering teeth. “Body’s way of trying to warm up more. It’ll stop in a bit.”

“Sure. Here,” Clint cradled the back of his head again and urged him to tuck his face into the warmth of Clint’s neck. His other hand rubbed long slow stroked up and down his back.

“How’s that? Is it helping?”

“It’s nice,” Phil said, his brain still fuzzy enough for his filters to be down. “Feels good.”

“Good,” Clint said, his voice choked again. “That’s good. Just stay with me.”

“Not leaving you. Promise,” Phil mumbled into his neck. And he meant it with all his heart. He’d been nursing a crush on Clint for a while now, ever since that first night at Clint’s apartment. It wasn’t the wings per se, of course, but the trust that Clint had shown him in revealing them that had tugged at Phil’s heart, and made him wonder if maybe there could be something between them. 

Clint’s distress now seemed to mean that Clint felt something for him, too. At least he hoped it did. Now wasn’t the time, of course. Sometime when he wasn’t three-quarters-dead and on the run, for starters.

“Do something for me?” Phil asked before he could talk himself out of it.

“Anything,” Clint whispered against his neck.

“Wrap me up in your wings again sometime, when I’m able to enjoy it properly?”

Phil didn’t know if the noise Clint made was a laugh or a sob, but he felt the brush of feathers along his back and a light touch of lips on his forehead. “Whenever you want. Promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow my writing on Tumblr at: [Jo Mathieson](http://jmathieson-fic.tumblr.com/)


End file.
